In moonlight pale, the abbey stands,
With hollow walls and lifeless hands.
A chapel lost to time’s cruel tide,
Where voices weep, yet none abide.
The village tells of what once dwelled,
Of hymns so sweet, yet cursed and felled.
A choir robed in ghostly white,
Who sing at dusk, then fade from sight.
A traveler bold, with heart so keen,
Ignored the tales of what had been.
Through iron gates, he stepped inside,
Where echoes hummed, though none replied.
The air was thick with scented myrrh,
Yet frost ran deep; the night did stir.
He saw the pews, so finely carved,
Yet all was still, the wood unmarred.
Then came a sound—so soft, so low,
A whispering hymn, a solemn woe.
No lips did move, no bodies swayed,
Yet voices rose in mournful blade.
A chilling choir, unseen, unshaped,
Sang hymns of souls who’d ne’er escaped.
Their voices climbed the vaulted spire,
Yet left the air so cold, so dire.
The traveler turned, his breath so thin,
As shadows grinned with lipless skin.
The choir sang, their words unclear,
Yet one refrain rang sharp and near:
“Stay and sing, for now you know,
All who enter, must not go.”
His voice was torn from lips so dry,
Yet still he sang, though not by why.
His body swayed, his steps were slow,
As if the song controlled his woe.
At dawn’s first light, the abbey stood,
With hollow walls and wormwood wood.
The traveler’s soul, now one with the choir,
Sings through the night in tones so dire.
And those who dare to listen near,
Will hear the hymns of loss and fear.
But mark this truth, and heed it well—
Their silent song is but a spell.
For once you hear their mournful tune,
Your voice is theirs… beneath the moon.